At one, the bruise appeared upon my bosom,
Blessed with punishment,
Binding my near life to be lonesome.

With a strange mutation have I been afflicted,
a heart split,
caught in homes from which I have since been evicted.

For anything to grow in climates of two seasons,
thinned duel parts of it,
expected of my heart, defiant of reason.

To give spiritually, unequally, nothing received,
Scrapes does it the mind’s whit,
that I took my solemn reprieve?

From my stature of “son,” etched in crimson,
Sitting on the corner of detachment,
Felt imprisoned, accused of treason.

My hearts, it seemed,
Unable to achieve nourishment,
Must have either and only red or blue blood streamed.

Now, ages of torment have I beaten,
Seeking my own appeasement,
I must allow my heart to come together, and remove the dusty demons.

Soon the law’s harsh of my hearts must be released,
To resist self pity in permanent,
I must grow my chest into a suitable crease.